Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and lily luen. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “lily luen” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see lily luen come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “lily luen, lily luen, fuck, lily luen!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “lily luen” release.